Four Scars
by cheddarbiscuit
Summary: Something wicked prowls the cobblestone streets, hiding in the shadows of carriages, of alleyways, of gutters. The rich, the poor, the powerful and the weak; none are safe, and all will know fear. [An Industrial-Age Four Swords AU]
1. Chapter 1

Chapter one: Ben Noyé

The early morning fog wrapped around the steps of the temple. A single wagon rattled down the stone street. The horses were small and yellow, speckled with rust red. The wagon was covered with a dirty grey cloth and the wooden wheels creaked and groaned. It came to a stop in front of the temple steps and one of the boys splashed into the reeking gutter water. He reached under the tarp. With a little grunt he pulled two stacks of heavy news papers, neatly stacked and bound with twine. He carried them, staggering a little, to the steps of the temple where he set them down and watched, quietly, as the wagon rattled away, boys still sitting on the edges. They swayed and bounced as the wheels bounced on the jagged street, and then they vanished.

The boy should have been given long trousers ages ago, and his hair should have been cut last week. It was long, brown and shaggy, and a little greasy. He stood quiet in the lamplight and watched the fog roll across the park. He could see the beautiful red glow of Din's fire on the far side. It always burned. He could hear the fountain, then he could hear the loud clattering of hooves on the street. A carriage raced past. The horses were white, or they might have been grey. Ben blinked and it was gone. He listened to it fade away. Then he stretched, and sat down on his stack of papers.

The sky started to turn from ink black to deep purple. Ben kicked out his feet and waited until the uncomfortable stack of papers made his backside sore and his spine ache. He looked down the street. He was expecting someone. He heard another set of wheels, and saw a pair of shadows emerge from the fog. A woman with long red hair, and blonde girl pushing a wheelbarrow of flowers. The woman's dress was blue; ten years faded, five years patched and twenty years out of style. The girl's dress was a deep purple, and made for her to grow into.

They stopped on the other side of the stairs. The little blonde lass let the handle of the wheelbarrow fall so that it stopped at an incline. Ben watched as the red haired woman adjusted the white shawl on her shoulders. The girl looked at Ben, and Ben smiled. The woman looked at Ben, too, but she did not smile. She fixed one of the girl's stray blonde locks, and wiped a smudge of dirt from her cheeks, "Remember, don't talk to strangers..."

"Why do you say that so _much_ these days?"

"Because more strangers want to talk to you, Aryll." Marin warned, "And once you let them start, they won't stop."

"But Marin—"

"If you run into any trouble, the police station is just there." Aryll knew that. Ben knew Aryll knew that. Marin was just saying it to soothe herself. She glanced sidelong at Ben. Ben felt personally attacked. Two months he had been selling papers here and not _once_ had he done anything to be shunned for! She looked back to Aryll, "I'll be back by sundown."

Then she kissed her on the forehead and straightened one final lock of hair. Ben envied her. He longed for a family, even if it was just a sister. Marin made a point of drawing her shawl tighter and refusing to look at Ben or buy one of his papers. Ben watched her go as the sky turned to pink, then gold. When she had disappeared, he turned to Aryll. She tugged the cloth from her wagon; she was selling flowers. That was nothing new. She had some flowers kept in her yard, Ben knew that, but he had never seen anyone with so many Silent Princesses. She never said where she got them. Ben had never asked, but he was certain if he did, Aryll would not tell him.

His seat had made him totally numb. He picked himself up and brushed off the seat of his pants. He checked for Marin. She was gone. He crossed the steps and stopped in front of her, "Mornin'!"

"Hi, Ben."

In the street lights, Ben stooped over her cart of flowers. Pickings were slim that day, but with two other sources of income, Aryll only sold flowers to keep herself occupied, and to cover any small costs that the trio should find. Ben helped himself to the place at her side.

No one came to the temple. Not yet. These people were workers, just like Aryll's family. They were the unfortunates, maybe even illiterate. Maybe just too tired, living with too tight a purse-string to read the news first-hand. They were little more than ghosts in the mist that relied to gossip and rumors. Ben counted himself lucky that he could, at least, read. He tried to spy details to distract himself from the cold and keep his mind awake. He saw a Moblin with a broken horn, a Goron with a smoking head, and a a drunkard staggering against the tide of men and women making their way to work.

"How are things?"

"The same."

Ben hummed. It was light enough to see the park, not just hear the sound of the fountain and see the flame. The layout was predictable—a large triforce stretching from a great library to the police station to the front gates of the castle, guess which end pointed where. The Temple had a good view of the park, as it was tucked between the police station and the library. Brick pathways marked the borders of the triangles and the space between them was a raised platform of stone with an empty pedestal, waiting for a sword. Some people thought it was for the Master Sword. Ben was not so sure, though he would admit he knew of no _other_ legendary blade.

Ben tucked his hands away between his belly and his legs to keep his fingers warm in the cold morning. Aryll was far more ladylike. Ben's eyes wandered around the park. Each triangle had a statue of one of the Goddesses inside it. Farore stood stoic in the middle of a flowering green maze, a sword in one hand, a shield standing under the other. Nayru laid in repose in the middle of a bubbling fountain. Din sat in meditation with her eternal red flame in the middle of a combed garden of sand. Other people called it _zen_. Ben thought it was strange, but he never said so.

The lamplighter passed. He came by when the sun set, too. He must sleep during the day. It was the only thing that made sense; light the lamps at night, spend the night awake, and extinguish them in the morning, and sleep the day away. Or perhaps he had two jobs. He never seemed to rush, so Ben did not think so. He made his way around the park, using his damper on one light, then the next.

The two sat in comfortable silence and shared warmth as the sun started to rise and the world started to turn in earnest. The bells in the temple belfry rang five times, to signal the start of the day, new petrol engines billowing black smoke into the sky, the trolleys rattling down their tracks, and the hooves of horses pulling private carriages and taxis. From around the corner, a young man in a pink waistcoat and blue jacket marched to the temple steps. He had a stack of papers in a portfolio and books in a leather bag at his side. An elaborate horse-drawn carriage pulled to a stop before the steps. High sage Rauru climbed own with a little grunting, a little huffing. He was quite old, a little gouty, and very fat. The constable rounded the corner, swinging his nightstick and whistling like a bird.

Ben jumped up. It was time to work. The whistling drew closer and Ben's hands flew to the knot in the twine, ripping it open as the sound of the man's hard heels came to the steps of the temple and High Sage Rauru started to labor up the first step.

"Good Morning, Const—"

" _Extra! Extra! Read all about it! Princess Zelda's bodyguard found turned to stone!_ " The Constable forgot about buying his daily flower. He slipped behind High Sage Rauru and snatched the paper out of his hands. Ben protested, " _You'd better pay for that paper, sir_!"

"The press was _not_ to print this..!"

"The people have a right to know!" Ben pitched his voice into the street, "Hear the story the police are trying to silence right here, folks!" he grabbed a second paper and waved it frantically to the people walking by, "Read all about it! Princess Zelda's Bodyguard found turned to stone!"

For once, High Sage Rauru wanted one of his papers.

"You..! Ben..!" Constable Motacill let his arm go with a huff. Ben was not afraid of him because he was not a mean man, just a strict one, and Ben had never seen him lay hands on anyone before. He was certain to use the gentlest care, even when arresting them, "What you just did was very clever and I'm proud of you but _damn it_ Ben!"

Aryll giggled. Constable Motacill slapped the crumpled paper against his palm and paid Ben two rupees for it. High Sage Rauru coughed some kind of approval, or request, or _something_ and dropped five rupees into Ben waiting hand with a quick, "Keep the change, boy."

"Yessir!" Ben chirped.

"Hey, kid!" a voice whispered from behind him. It was the man in the pink waistcoat. His hair was a mess. His glasses were askew. There were leaves in his hair. It looked like there were droplets of wine, perhaps blood, splashed under his hair and across his forehead. Ben was very familiar with Link Delaire and his peculiar birthmark. "Here's two rupees. Give me a copy. Quick."

Ben made the trade. The man stuffed the paper in his bag and scrambled up, jumping over the handrail to meet High Sage Rauru at the door of the Temple, "Sir, if I could just have your attention for a—"

"No! No, don't talk nonsense! Get out of here, boy."

The man skipped the pleading and cut right to the chase, "Sir, did you know that this very day, across Hyrule hundreds of children will die because bread made not with wheat, sir, but with _building plaster?_ Of milk contaminated by borax put there by the own unsuspecting mothers?"

"Go on you, get lost!"

Another carriage arrived and the minister of trade, Ruto, arrived. Ben was certain to approach her with much more respect, "Buy a paper, m'lady?"

"Thank you, child. Yes."

The beautiful Zora woman paid Ben and took the paper in her elegant webbed fingers. Her scales shimmered in the morning light. It was something to see. The Minister of crafts and guilds, which was largely a ceremonial position because of the rise of factories and assembly lines came next, his heavy strides could be felt like an earthquake as he turned around the corner. Ben went back to hollering, "Extra! Extra! Read all about it! Princess Zelda's Bodyguard found turned to stone!"

"I'll take two." Darunia said, "We Gorons like to stay informed and there aren't enough papers in the factories… Goddesses know they don't pay you enough, either."

"They don't pay me at all, sir. My pay comes from my profit."

Sir Darunia was livid, " _Then I'll take five and give my choice words to the company."_

"T-thank you sir." but Ben was not sure Darunia meant for him to be thankful.

The Minister of History and Culture, a Gerudo woman named Nabooru was next to arrive. She had her work cut out for her, as the past was much longer than the present, and much more solid than the future. Still, cut out work was still work that had to be pieced together, so she was always tired, and more than once he caught her sleeping in her carriage. Ben quickly skimmed through the paper looking for something that would be more likely to interest her before he asked, "Buy a paper m'lady?"

"No, I'm very sorry." she said like she said everyday, "I can't stand reading bad news."

Ben did not like reading bad news, either. Loved to sell it, though. "Then can I interest you in page three? An exclusive interview with daredevil and adventurer Mako Delaire? He talks all about his latest discovery."

"Mako Delaire is a fraud, at best." she said, "He's probably just discovered some discarded ballast and claimed it's a lost city."

She was probably right—but she still bought a paper and that was all Ben cared about. The Minister of Agriculture and the interior came next, and only said, "I know, child." in an ominous tone before his lips had begun to form the words. Ben believed her.

The minister of defense came next, flanked by his daughter. They both marched past Ben, Baron Listfield taking the paper from his hands while he blustered on about _expansion_ like it was free, as Miss Listfield dropped two green rupees into his hand. It was like clockwork.

And, like clockwork, Constable Motacill came ambling back down the sidewalk to the temple. He walked towards the stairs, but he took his sweet time doing it, "Link Delaire again, sir?" Aryll asked him.

"He strikes again." the Constable nodded. He smiled fondly as he sauntered up the stairs. He threw the doors open wide so Ben and Aryll could turn their faces and close their eyes and relish to cool air that came from inside. Constable Motacill went in. The heavy doors closed with a loud thud. The Constable emerged less than two minutes later, pushing the red-haired man in the blue jacket ahead of him.

"Link, you've been warned about this. It's trespassing. It's harassment."

"Harassment?" Link Delaire demanded. He twisted around. Constable Motacill had put him in irons this time, "It's _harassment_ for an in informed citizen to try and improve the living situation of his fellow men? It is harassment to try and _save_ people?"

"Link was there as my guest!" Miss Listfield tore out of the temple behind them. She made short work of the stairs, because she had no heavy skirts to mind and no corset to restrain her. She wore trousers—not the poufy, proper riding bloomers of demure women; hers were tailored, made of bright red tweed that laced over her narrow waist like she wanted you to _dare_ to think of her as a lady.

Ben was only fourteen, but he wished more women would dress like her.

"My father's top priority is to ensure that Hyrule's future soldiers are healthy, informed and _not dying in their infancy from food adulteration!_ "

"We can discuss that down at the police station Miss Listfield."

"Very well." She said. She and her tight red trousers marched past the Constable and his charge and raised her hand. She bellowed, "TAXI!"

A taxi skidded to a halt. She climbed in. She rode away. Ben watched the taxi dash forward only to stop in front of the police station. Miss Listfield did not get out. She did not allow it to return for Link Delaire and the Constable. Link Delaire laughed like only a man in love could, and the Constable sighed wearily.

Ben considered joining the army.

The day settled down after that. Aides and clerks came and went, so did lawyers and lobbyists. Ben did not sell another paper to anyone of note, but soon word got around, and Ben did not _need_ to draw attention the the latest front page; people were _scrambling_ for them. He was down to his last morning paper in a few hours. He gave it to Aryll, as he always did, to keep her flowers damp in the afternoon heat; it was wet and unreadable anyway. She promised him half a cold beef sandwich and half a green apple for it.

"It's not made with building plaster, is it?"

"No. Marin's smarter than that."

The two went back to their silence. Without his papers to distract people, Aryll saw a little more business until the heat of the day and the lunch hour slowed everything to a painful crawl. Aryll ate her half of the sandwich in silence and Ben was careful to make each mouthful of sourdough and cold cuts last. The meat was lean, the last of their Hyliasday roast, and glazed with honey. The apple was sour, and left a tart dryness in his mouth. Aryll offered him some of her strong black tea. It left a _bitter_ dryness in his mouth.

When he was done, Ben took advantage of the reduced foot-traffic to stretch out on the steps behind Aryll so he could squeeze in a little peace before he had to start screaming about the world's ills again. Around two in the afternoon, the aides and clerks returned from distant libraries, then Gonzo came with a cart loaded up with copies of the evening paper, and some extra. Ben took a gamble and traded all of his earnings for promises of juicy details of the front-page story, and an additional story of a runaway bride. Ben did not have to look at it long before he found a good angle to sell it.

"Extra! Extra! New details emerge in investigation! Detective Groose Aracelli finds no signs of a break in at the palace! Who is the traitor living within the royal family's walls? Find out here!"

A man with flowing dark hair was the first to buy a copy of the evening edition. His suit was disheveled. When he reached into his pocket to pay Ben he pulled out a broken gold cufflink with his mess of rupees. With a hasty thanks, he walked quickly away with his nose buried in the pages. Then he recoiled. His hands closed, crumpling the paper in anger without looking at the front page. Ben burned, but the man seemed to have real emotion when he did it—and he had still _paid_ for the paper fairly, and he did not throw it to the ground. Most folks just used it for bum fodder or wrapping fish when they were done, anyway. Ben had no reason to complain.

As the fuming man rounded the corner and vanished, a black carriage drawn by a single horse stopped on the opposite side of the wide street. Ben faced the hair rising on the back of his neck with resignation, not apprehension. Aryll shrank back behind her cart of flowers. Three Gerudo got out; two women, one man. The man was the _only_ Gerudo man Ben had ever seen in his life, and everyone around him kept saying it was significant, that there was only _one_ male Gerudo born every hundred years. Ben did not know much, but he knew bullshit when he heard it.

Ganondorf Dragmire did not bother him, despite his heart pounding and his hair standing on end and his mind completely going blank in his presence. The man owed him no kindness, but Ben had never caused him offense. It was simply that Ganondorf Dragmire was a man to be feared. He crossed the street without looking both ways like he expected the horses to recoil in fear (they did) and the drivers veer off course to protect themselves (they did). He strode between Ben and Aryll like they were invisible, the golden chain that dangled freely from his pocket dared any ambitious street rat to reach out and take it (they did not.)

He paused, straightened his smart black suit and his crimson brocade waistcoat, and opened the doors. The cold air that washed over Ben and Aryll felt… bad, corrupted with malice somehow.

The two women circled the park. They were old, bones crumbling to dust from the inside, so they always seemed to be leaning forward into their dark velvet dresses. Their red hair had faded to silver, and they hid their wrinkles with dark veils pinned to their hats. They would not cross the street to buy his paper. They would not pick one up if they saw it discarded on the stone trails. They would never speak to anyone but each other. When he had been younger, much more reckless, Ben had tailed them around the park to listen to their whispering. They spoke of a terrible fire as if the smoke had been hanging in the air, but there was no smoke and no fire. They had caught him spying and they had fixed them with their two golden eyes and Ben had felt himself quietly hexed.

A terrible fire broke out that night, laying waste to Ganondorf Dragmire's competition and just _barely_ stopping short of the alley he had slept in the night before. Ben had never set foot near them again.

They moved slowly, one sister holding a black lace parasol to shade them and the other a feathered fan to cool them as they shuffled carefully around the walking trail, the inner triangle first, clockwise, the outer triangle second, counterclockwise, the same way they walked it every day. It was as if they knew, somehow, how slow and measured each step had to be so that they would have completed their walk the exact instant their son left the temple. It was so every day, and so certain that the hair raised on Ben's neck when they turned that last corner, and Aryll froze on her side of the stairs, wanting to hide behind him, wanting to hide in the bushes, wanting to hide under her wheelbarrow; but too terrified Mister Dragmire would _see her hiding_ to dare.

The doors burst open. Ben's skin crawled and Aryll shrank down where she sat. Whatever happened, Mister Dragmire was not pleased. Ben could feel it in the air. He could hear it in the man's steps. He knew because the two Gerudo women were not done with their walk yet. His hands clenched into fists. His teeth clamped down on his lower lip and Aryll whimpered. Days, months, and years Mister Dragmire had been walking past them without so much as a word. Today he stopped. He turned to Aryll. Today he spoke.

"Your brother works in my mine."

Ben was not entirely sure what they were supposed to make of that information.

"Yes." Aryll did not meet his eyes.

"Your sister works in my factory."

"Yes."

He took a flower and did not pay for it. Ben jumped to his feet to tell him off immediately but the man fixed Ben with a stare that was too cold for his golden eyes and crushed the Silent Princess in his fist, letting the flower petals tumble down, "Flowers are free and fragile, perhaps you should consider a different business venture."

Perhaps Ben was a little too brave. He bellowed as loudly as he could (which was quite loud.) "BUY A PAPER, SIR?"

To his shock, and a little to his satisfaction, Mister Dragmire twitched, just a little. Maybe it was rage and Ben had sealed his doom. Maybe it was carefully cloaked fear. Ben wanted to think so. He wanted to think he had shocked the man, though his face did not stretch and his jaw did not slacken. His voice remained level; "Why would I buy your paper, when it comes free from the mouths of gossips?"

Ben was certain he was too brave, but when he died of pox or plague or poor nutrition, he would smile at the memory of this moment; "You might fancy something to clean up with once you take your head out of your ass."

Aryll was _horrified._ Her hands flew to her mouth and Ben worried she was about to start crying she was so scared. Ben felt the blood rush to his ears as his heart began to pound like an engine in anticipation of the fatal rain of bullets Mister Dragmire was sure to put into his chest. The man towered over him, his eyes almost glowed with rage, but his voice was calm, "You might find your boldness would be more useful if you acted to benefit yourself, rather than spoke to impress a girl."

Ben let him have the last word. He was satisfied with his quip, and Mister Dragmire was right. Ben did use his boldness to benefit himself, but he could try to apply himself to a more meaningful position; he could _write_ the articles instead of describing them. He could milk a good idea for two thousand words or more, and two thousand words would get him more than selling papers. If he got a camera, that would be all the better.

He watched Mister Dragmire and his mothers leave from his perch on the stairs, and he felt just as accomplished and powerful as a general with the high ground. The blood drained from his ears and his heart slowed down. The fear was replaced with light-headed giddiness. He sat down with a chuckle, taking a breath to congratulate himself.

"If you do that again; I'll find a new set of stairs."

He did not want Aryll to find a new set of stairs. These were his stairs. He had scrapped and bullied and clawed for these stairs. It was the best spot in town; it was popular with pilgrims and tourists and state officials, he had no shortage of customers. Aryll had given him food; and like a good stray she would never be rid of him. What was he to do if she left? Take a lesser corner, or suffer in silence while someone else got _his_ half her lunch?

"I'll never do it again."

The day went on, and so did the people. It felt like he sold out of the evening edition twice as fast. He was down to his last copy before the heat of the day was even properly started. As he usually did after he pocketed his profit, he kept that one for himself. It had endless uses once he had read through it, and he _had_ paid for it. He handed Aryll a page to use as a fan. In the breeze she made, he ran his fingers through his hair and gathered it back in a loose knot. He took a page for himself and they fanned themselves off and on, watching the ministers leave for rich dinners at grand clubs, leaving their aides and clerks to work until twilight started to creep its way across the sky.

Once the air had cooled and they did not need to fan themselves, Aryll stretched out and rolled the cloth she used to protect her flowers under her head. Ben focused on the paper. It was strange to see a front page paper without a pictograph; or even a drawing, but cameras were not allowed in the private rooms of the royal home, and the story was rushed to print, no time to wait for a sketch to be made.

 _Traitor in the Walls_ the headline screamed, _Foreign Agents responsible for National Tragedy._

 _At three am, on the thirteenth of Irenas, Princess Zelda was found distraught in her chambers, her personal bodyguard, Impa Sheikston, was beside her. Stoic, as one would expect of a soldier of the highest caliber, however, it was not her natural disposition that made her stand so admirably, but magic most foul. The woman had been petrified, turned to stone in the line of duty..._

"Miss Blanchard!" Aryll interrupted him.

Miss Blanchard's painted mouth smiled as Aryll sprung up. The only woman with redder hair was Marin, but Miss Blanchard's glowed with a golden sheen. She wore her hair in a complex coil of braids and curls that held a round, extravagant hat in place. A mesh veil shaded her green eyes, and ended at the tip of her delicate nose, "Is that the last paper, Ben?"

"It is, ma'am."

"Did Pip buy the evening edition?"

Constable Motacill's pet-name never failed to make him choke on a giggle, "N-no Miss Blanchard. Haven't seen him."

She frowned; but it did not look mad or upset. "Well, Miss Listfield will surely keep me informed. Have you seen her today?"

"Yes. She went to the station with the constable when he arrested Link Delaire."

 _Now_ Miss Blanchard's frown looked genuine. She looked offended at the accusation that her dear Pip was even a policeman, let alone one that _made arrests._ She clutched a cameo at her throat and breathed, "That kind young man? Pip really arrested him?"

"Had him in irons, Miss!" Ben feigned a grave tone, "Marched him right to the station. I did not see Miss Listfield leave, and she did not return here if she did, but I was not looking. It was a good say for sales."

"I'd imagine it was." Miss Blanchard shuddered, "How unfortunate for her majesty—Indeed, a ghastly fate for Lady Impa. I shudder to think… The two of you, do get off the streets quickly tonight. Pip always says the criminal returns to the scene of the crime." her eyes shifted to the palace across the park. "This place is far too close to the palace for anyone to be here after dark."

"Marin will be back soon." Aryll assured her.

Miss Blanchard's green eyes turned to Ben, strained with worry, "And you, Ben?"

"I'll keep myself safe."

She seemed soothed. She fiddled with the cuff of her glove and continued on her way to the police station. The bell chimed to signal the end of the work day. As Aryll had assured Miss Blanchard, Marin came back with the current of people heading to their own homes. She swept Aryll away with her, leaving Ben alone on the steps in darkness, where he waited patiently as it grew more dark, more cold, and the time between the people walking past became longer and longer.

He was used to Gonzo being late—when Gonzo was on time it felt like he was _early._ Ben sighed and searched the street, left then right, without the lamps he only had Din's fire, a few lit windows, and the moon to see by. No sign of Gonzo. No sound of horses or boys chattering. He picked himself up and tucked the paper under his arm. Without Aryll, there was nothing keeping him; he had walked back before. He would walk back again. He would probably walk back in the future.

So he started walking.

He did not get far until the fog shifted and the clouds moved and he saw something gleaming in the gutter. Gleaming things were usually costly things, things he could take to a pawn shop. He knelt down to snatch it up. He brushed off dead leaves and a blurry sales receipt. It was a pin, missing the backing, obviously that was why it had fallen off. It was a star-like cluster of Pearls and gemstones. In the low light he could not tell what color they were, but he could see them gleaming. Maybe he would not sell it—by the time Aryll was old enough to wear it he might have found a back to hold it in place.

Ganondorf's advice echoed around in the back of his head as he examined the pin. He could sell it, buy a camera, and earn enough to get her _hundreds_ of jeweled pins… Or he could hold onto it. He _was_ a paperboy—if the owner had any money, a reward would be posted in a week or less. Surely a reward would be _more_ that what a pawnshop was willing to give?

"You shouldn't have done that."

Every nerve caught fire.

* * *

I was going to kill Ben, but... But I just _can't_ kill Ben!


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter two: Pipit Motacill

Pipit felt a charge in the air, like the sudden spark of flint striking steel right by his ear. Karane reacted to the noise before he had even realized something was horribly wrong. Beside him, she straightened up with a gasp, her hand tightening around his fingers painfully as she gasped, "Ben!"

"Ben..?" he looked at her with knitted brows. He saw the slack-jawed look of horror on her face as her head turned and a shriek seemed to shake the building around them. _Ben._ The world turned to a blur. He nearly tripped over his desk, _Goddesses! The kid!_

He could see his hands scrambling over papers. His boots tangling with a chair. Karane's bustle vanishing into be black night, holding onto Ashei Listfeild's arm, while _he_ was still fumbling for his gun. Link Delare was clinging to the bars of his cage like an animal. His face and hands were bone white and he was desperate to get a view of the outside. He was shouting something, but Pipit could not hear him.

As he staggered down the stairs he saw that Karane had Ben securely smothered against her shoulder. Pipit slowed his pace. Ben was fine—Karane had scared whoever it was off, and he could hear Miss Listfield's light heels giving chase. Pipit started to look for any hidden accomplices, but it was too dark. The lamps were not lit—the lamplighter was late. Aryll was gone, probably for the best. Across the park, Din's Fire had been snuffed out.

Pipit squinted in the darkness, looking for any sign of another soul. He saw none. He heard a window open above him, Karane crying over Ben. There was a dog going wild somewhere. The boy was quiet, but he was fourteen, at that age Pipit could have been put through all manner of hell and emerge unscathed—but put him next to a beautiful woman he would be stricken _absolutely_ _wittless._ Though, Pipit supposed Ben was a craftier boy than he had ever been. He was probably standing there with a smile, hardly believing how fortunes could change so quickly, and soaking up her attention like a sponge.

The scream that had made Karane panic had probably given some would-be cutpurse the fright of his life. Ben knew how to keep out of trouble; Pipit doubted he was high on some kingpin's hitlist, and at a gangly, awkward stage of youth, he was not likely to be picked up by some deviant. Pipit had never heard him tell of his parents, but he _looked_ like the kind of dirty waif that had no family to pay for his safe return—though Pipit supposed if a ransom note found its way to his desk he would have a hard time deciding whether he should pay the sum or treat it like any other abduction.

He saw light from above and heard a window open, "Constable, what _is_ that racket?"

"Nothing to see out here." he called up. "All's well."

"Oh, Pip!" Karane whimpered, "Pip how could you say such a thing?"

"Ben's a tough kid, Karane. He scared him off. Not a sign of anyone." Pipit reached for Ben's shoulder with a smile, "Good job, Kid. You're alright, now. You're fine."

But Ben was not fine.

Ben was stone.

Karane pulled the kid closer. Rather, she wound herself tighter around him. He was frozen in place. He could not be moved. Pipit was unable to process what he was faced with. He felt the cold stone under his hand. He saw Karane clinging him like he would float away if she let go, but he could not believe it. He would not accept it. This was a statue—an alabaster duplicate. The bastard had managed to slip off with the real one, leaving them to puzzle like fools over a fake while he dragged the kid further and further away!

"Ben!" he shouted into the darkness, "Ben! Kid! Where are you?"

"No… No, Pip, this is him. I saw it with my own eyes."

Pipit did not want to believe it. _You only think you saw it_ , he wanted to scold her, _He can make a statue from magic alone, you don't think he can make an illusion?_ But his heart knew she was right. The stone was so intimately carved, he could see the individual strands of his tangled hair frozen in motion. If it was a duplicate, then it was perfect to the last detail, the cut above his eyebrow, the crooked front teeth, the tears and patches of his clothes and the broken buckle on his corduroy cap.

"Oh, Pip!" Karane tried very hard to maintain the image of stoicism that was expected of a Constable's sweetheart. It did not work. She tore herself away from the kid and searched her sleeve, her pocket, then her handbag for a handkerchief to dab at her eyes. Pipit pressed his fist against his lip to keep himself from shouting again. He was quivering. He hoped Karane could not see it.

Ben was frozen mid-step, half twisted there on the sidewalk. His eyes were wide, fixed on something that had been standing on the sidewalk before him. Ben was a fighter. Pipit knew he was. He had never _seen_ him scrap but he had seen him with bloody knuckles and busted lips and black eyes. He had seen him sell papers with dried blood caked under his nose like it was nothing. There was nothing that would scare that kid, but now Ben's hand was outstretched and open. He had been trying to shield himself. He had been trying to run.

He had been trying to run _to them._

Karane hid her eyes behind her silk handkerchief. Pipit released a breath. He shuddered. His eyes flooded. An ache cut like a wire through his chest down to his toes. He heard footsteps. He hid the tears quickly and drew his gun. He did not put his finger on the trigger or aim it, but he put himself between Karane and the approaching noise. The pace was quick and determined. The noise neared the blind corner and he did not lift the gun. There was not much light, and he did not wish to do harm to an innocent. It could be Miss Listfield returning, or the lamplighter, or a stranger.

"It is only me, Constable." Miss Listfield said as soon as she turned the corner. Ever the soldier, she saw his gun before anything else, "If there was another, I could not catch him."

"You saw someone? Who?"

"Little more than a passing shadow. It pulled away from the boy and fled."

"His height?" Pipit put his gun away, "His weight?"

"As tall as I, and very slim. If he were not so fast, we would have known him better. Or perhaps if the lamplighter had come on time, I would have seen him more clearly." As Miss Listfield approached, Pipit tired to form a picture of the man. She was quite tall herself, if the three of them both stood barefoot, she would be taller than Karane in her shoes, but shorter than he, however the heels on her boots were were an inch and a half taller than his—she liked to make sure her daring red trousers were as long as they could be—So did she mean tall as herself in her boots, or in her stocking feet? That was a difference worth noting.

"Did you see anything else?" he was desperate. He was begging, though he knew she would hide nothing, "Short hair, perhaps? Or long? A style of hat?"

"He wore a cloak." Miss Listfield offered Karane a fresh, flannel handkerchief, much more suited to grieving than her pretty silk one, "A pointed hat, or perhaps a hood."

It was not enough. Pipit had not known what magic detail he had expected Miss Listfield to pull from thin air, but he had expected something more than _that._ He knew it was a blessing she had seen anything at all, and he should be grateful she had even been present. He wanted more, but he could not demand it.

"Should we… Could you move him?"

Pipit looked to Ben—could he call the thing Ben? Did Princess Zelda still call Lady Impa 'Lady Impa' or was she… something else? Was Ben still a human life or was he evidence? Could he and Ashei even lift him on their own? He would hate to drop him, to shatter him only to find he could have been brought back with a few magic words or other miracle.

But if Ben was left on the street, surely some accident would befall him, or some act of deliberate malice? Pipit frowned. He could think of no one who would wish to do Ben harm, but he could easily imagine some hooligan or vandal chipping his nose or his fingers or worse just to see what would become of him when the curse was broken—if it ever came to pass.

It felt as though Miss Listfield did most of the lifting. She helped him tip Ben backwards. She held his ankles while he held the boy by the shoulders. Karane hurried ahead of them to pull open the heavy station door. Pipit heard her grunt with the effort. Pipit glanced at her as he carried Ben past the doorway. She gripped the wood tightly, pressing her cheek against it with a glazed look in her eye.

"What was it?" Link Delaire demanded from his cell. Pipit did not see the young man's expression when Ben's frozen face came into view, but he could hear the shock in his voice, "In Hylia's name, man, what's happened?"

"All I could see was a shadow and them he was..." Karane whimpered. "Just like Lady Impa. Farore's Embrace no one is safe—Why would it attack Ben?"

He heard the sharp chime of Link Delaire striking the bars of his cell. He was wearing a ring. That was what made the noise. He said nothing. About damn time.

It took maneuvering to get Ben's legs through the single door and tucked into the corner between a tall bookcase of records and his desk, where nothing but dust would disturb him. Pipit leaned back against his desk staring at the kid. He heard Link's feet moving in his cell. He was pacing. He always paced when his emotions ran high—and that was frequent. There would be a track worn in the cell from all of his pacing. He heard the door squeak and slam shut and Karane joined him at his desk. She clung to his arm, "Pip, how could we let this happen?"

"What were we supposed to do to prevent it, Karane?"

What was he supposed to do? Start and end each day telling Ben his door was always open? Ben was never the type to surrender to authority—and why would he want an officer to the law, telling him to trim his hair and wash behind his ears and eat his vegetables or clean his room? Especially when the officer of the law that was a scant ten years his senior?

Was it because he really thought that? Or was it because he wanted to absolve himself of the responsibility?

He did not know for certain Ben had no home, no parents… Pipit had never seen much evidence of them, but that did not mean… The kids's parents. He was going to have to track them down, and the only person who might know… Even worse than telling Ben's parents, he would have to tell _Aryll._ This would break the poor girl's heart. Ben was the only friend Pipit knew she had. She had a sister, sure, and she had a brother Pipit had never seen or heard from, but she did not attend school, and that was the only place a child had to form friendships.

Link stopped pacing, "You need to let me go."

Pipit twisted around, "That's all you care about!? If I had not been here arguing morality with _you_ I would have been out patrolling the streets and this—"

" _And if you're weren't in the pocket of the aristocracy you would not have been arguing with me!_ " Link snapped back, "I care about Ben, I care about every child in this city; and we need to figure out _why_ Ben was a victim."

"So you're done being a health official now? You want to be a policeman? You think I don't know how to investigate a crime?"

"You know how to catch flesh and blood; I don't think we're dealing with flesh and blood." He picked up his copy of the paper from the cot in his cell. "A scenario for you; either by magic or the simple passing of time, some ancient evil awakens. It does what ancient evil is wont to do; it seeks out the divine power of the Triforce; it's attack is stopped by Princess Zelda's bodyguard, giving the Princess time to use her magic and cripple it temporarily. She flees the castle, taking the Triforce with her. The spectre has to recover, and perhaps it is unable to move during the day, it is forced to hide in the shadows of the palace, or perhaps it decides to wait, in case her Majesty returns. While it waits, it hears a young boy. A boy who was _not_ at the scene of the attack, who has not interacted with any person _inside_ the palace, who by all logic should now know a single detail, shout to every passerby of what transpired. We all heard him do it; the time, the victims, the _very room_ it took place in. He speculates motivations, on who it could have been, what magic was used. The ancient evil, unaccustomed to our modern life, is unaware Ben is little more than the final link in a chain. He was not the servant looking for a payday who phoned the tycoon who woke his reporters. He did not write the story and bring it to the editors who passed it to the typesetters who scrambled to put it on the front page of the Castletown Oracle. It mistook _Ben_ for an Oracle, capable of seeing its every move, possibly _predicting_ them. For its own survival; it had to eliminate him."

The thought chilled Pipit to the bone. Karane sucked in a breath, "No!"

Miss Listfield was more concerned with the broader picture, "Do you think it would attack other paperboys?"

"It could. It absolutely could. If you want to warn them, the only place I know they will be is the Castletown Oracle offices at three in the morning."

"Then we will be there."

"I'm the police officer, that is my duty, Miss Listfield."

Ashei frowned, "I am a _soldier._ "

"Ah, but Miss Listfield, I am afraid I need you for a more pressing task, if Constable Motacill permits. I would like to go to the Royal Archives, and I need your family name to access it. _Delaire_ is not associated with much but disgrace and rablerousing these days."

Everyone looked at him expectantly. Pipit fumed and groaned privately. If his _father_ had not been so intent on finding cities in the sky, and if Mako Delaire had not grown up hellbent on finding a city in the sea (because _clearly_ the only reason their father had not found a city in the sky was because it fell to the sea) and _Link Shad Delaire himself_ was not so militant about social reform (though Pipit was ready to admit, as an officer and a civilian, that society needed reform) then perhaps— _perhaps_ —the name Delaire would still be in good standing. But the father had died shooting himself out of a cannon and Mako Delaire kept diving into the sea for fun and profit and Link was… Link.

"Fine." Pipit took the keys from the wall. "You may go, _with Ashei Listfield_ to the Royal Archives, and you may _only_ go there. If you are not allowed in, you must return here."

"Absolutely." Link Delaire agreed as the cell door swung open. He went to retrieve his bag and his papers from Pipit's desk, "To the Royal Archives and nowhere else."

"And the children?"

"I will go to the Oracle offices and notify them immediately."

"And will you take Miss Blanchard with you? Or leave her here?"

Pipit had not thought about it. Karane could take care of herself well enough; she had a small pistol hidden in her handbag for warning shots and crippling knees, and hatpins, which Pipit knew were quite effective murder weapons, though hers were not nearly as long as the ones he seen bloodied and bent at crime scenes. But if their eyes could be trusted, if Shad was right, what would a hatpin or a gun do? What could _he_ do aside from jump in the way?

He would much rather jump in the way, "I will take a cab and escort her home."

Satisfied, Miss Listfield opened the door. It was still very dark outside, "How odd." she observed coolly, "The lamplighter has yet to come. What could be keeping him?"

"Fear, perhaps?" Karane shivered, "I would not feel comfortable walking through that park at night. Not after this."

"Hmm. Constable, you may have to put your trip on hold. A man is coming."

"Who?" Pipit's hand went to his gun without thinking. The night had put him on edge; he so rarely did that, "The same one?"

"Too short, I think. Yes. Too short, and distinctly mortal. Distraught."

The short, mortal, distraught man heard her, "Excuse me!?"

"My apologies." she stepped away from the door, "Mind the last step, it is taller than the others, yeah?"

As the stranger and Ashei came abreast, he saw he was perhaps two, or three inches shorter than Ashei was in her heels. He had dark hair that must have been quite tamed in the morning or last night, but it was escaping its pommade. He had abandoned his starched collar, but one of his cuffs clung to his wrist with a pink pearl cufflink. He needed a shave.

"I would like to report a missing person."

Pipit did not want to deal with that man's problems, "You must wait twenty-four hours."

"I have!" he snapped, "Down to the second! My Anju has been missing for exactly twenty-four hours. I have walked this town over searching for her. I went to the paper, the paper treated it like some… Some _cheap_ _thrill_!"

He must have been talking about the evening edition. That had not been in the morning paper, though Pipit had not read that one from front to back; Ashei Listfield and Link Delaire had occupied his day. Pipit would not get back to reading the morning paper, either. He watched Shad and Ashei slip out the door to solve a real crisis, leaving him stuck there to chase his tail. No! Not even his own tail! Another man's tail!

Still, he had to follow procedure. "Come into the interview room."

"The interview room? Like _I'm a suspect!?"_

The man was under strain. Pipit knew that. It still irritated him, "To keep it confidential. Nothing more. Karane could you… make this man some coffee?"

"Yes." Karane glanced back to the under-stocked kitchenette. There was only coffee. Pipit felt like he willed the man into the room. It was plain inside. A table, two chairs. A single light. It was not welcoming. It was not relaxing. Even Pipit felt like a suspect when he sat in it. He pulled the cord to light the bulb and indicated the man could sit. He went to his desk to retrieve a notepad and pencil and tried not to look at the statue that was once Ben.

He took a note of his name and badge number, and of the date, and of the type of report _, missing persons_. What would he write down for Ben's case? _Murder? Assault?_  
"Constable?"

Pipit jumped, "Name!...Ah, that is, _your_ name, Sir."

"Kafei Dotour. My fiancee's name is Anju Potts."

"When did you last see her?"

"Yesterday. No. Not yesterday. It felt like yesterday because I haven't slept. The morning of the day before yesterday. Her mother saw her yesterday, just an hour or so before she was due at the temple."

Pipit glanced up at him. He looked like he had not slept in a day. Now that he was seated within reach, Pipit could see his lips were cracked and peeling, and the skin under his eyes was puffy and dark. He had chewed the nail on his right thumb down to nearly nothing, but some fingernails were only gnawed slightly, and the first two fingers on his left hand were still long and freshly buffed, and stained yellow with tobacco. One day without her and he picked up _two_ bad habits? Pipit looked back down to the notepad to hide the astonishment and judgement in his eyes; he did not think it was possible to fall so far so fast.

"Which temple?"

Castletown had so many; and it seemed to Pipit that each time he told himself he had heard of them all, someone was coming in to report a mugging or public intoxication at a new one.

"The one in Clocktown."

"Clocktown? That is hours from here."

Mister Dotour did not respond directly, "I waited for her at the temple with my parents, her parents, all of our friends, for hours. Her brother, Grog, and I went to their home and the driver was still there, locked out and trying to convince her to come down. The doors were all locked from the inside, the windows were secure, no one had come in or out, but Anju, her wedding dress, the jewels she had planned to wear were all missing. Her clothes were packed and ready to be picked up at the door. The only thing missing from that house was _her._ "

Pipit started to doubt his first theory, if Anju Potts was going to fly the coop, surely she would do it in a more practical walking suit? Pipit was more concerned now, but as concerned as he was, he could not help, "I am not a policeman in Clocktown. This is a matter for them."

"Her mother has gone to the Clocktown Police. If she is found here, and we only file a report with them, what then? They will tell me they cannot help her come home because they have no business in _Castletown?_ "

Pipit set the pencil down, "If she has come of her own free will, if she is over the age of eighteen, there is nothing _we can do_ about it, either. It is not against the law for a woman to move and live independently. She has committed no crime."

"No!" Mister Dotour sprung up. Pipit jumped back in his seat, but the man did not move to grab or strike him. His chair scraped against the floor as he pushed it aside to pace, "No, Anju loved me. She would _not_ have run away. She would not leave me at the altar. _She loved me_."

 _Did she, though?_ Pipit bit his lip and looked at the door. He himself did not want to face the possibility of Karane fleeing to a life on the streets rather than face a future with him, either, but he knew many women felt powerless and trapped and unloved in their marriages. Many of them tried to strike out on their own; and Pipit had seen them wind up in straights more dire than the ones they had left. Some turned to stealing. Some turned to worse. Some of them turned to murder; how they _felt_ , how they were _treated,_ it had not mattered to the courts. It was a wonder this miserable world had never once woken up find its ministering angels had taken wing in the night.

"Here is her pictograph." Mister Dotour set it down on the table next to his scrawled notes, "Her hair is red. Her eyes are blue. She disappeared wearing a pink satin and white lace wedding down, her jewelry was diamond and pink pearl, chandelier earrings and a brooch of pearls and diamonds. I have searched every pawnshop in this city and I have yet to see them."

"Leading you to suspect she was abducted?"

"Well what else could it be? If she had run away, do you think she would have done it in her wedding dress? It was made to her exact measurements—and I've never met a woman more slim. She could not sell it. If she wanted to run away, she would have no reason to take it. Her jewelry she could have sold—but she has not."

He had a point. A woman traveling on foot in a wedding dress, even if she wore something as plain and as practical tartan cape overtop, would attract attention, and even a gumshoe like Kafei would find no shortage of witnesses in Clocktown. It was not as large as Castletown, but it was far from sleepy.

"No one at the train station saw her?"

"No—no all the more reason I think she was taken against her will."

Pipit frowned. He did not like the idea of that, he also disliked the idea of Kafei wandering aimlessly around town looking for a woman who might not be there. Without a broken window or open door, he had no reason to think Miss Potts was kidnapped. True, it would be impractical to run away in her wedding dress, but had they searched every single trunk she had packed? And how could the recognize clothes as familiar or unfamiliar when they were not there to be identified to begin with? _He_ was not familiar with every ensemble Karane owned, and it seemed every week she was coming out in a new little something. How could Kafei have a complete inventory of her dresses? A plain traveling suit only took a week or so to make-at least, that was how long it took Karane to sew one by her lonesome between visiting and being visited and her walks with him. With more and more ready-to-wear garments being made in factories, who could say, for certain, she had not just purchased a new suit of clothes to make it _seem_ like she had been abducted in her wedding dress? For all their frills and ruffles, dresses were remarkably compact. It would be… incriminating to admit, but for all Karane wore, her closet was not as big as Pipit had first thought. Miss Pott's mother could have seen her in the wedding dress, then she could have slipped out of the dress, folded her jewels in a handkerchief and tucked them away in her corset or a pocket stuffed the wedding dress in an overnight bag to hide it, and put on a new traveling dress and a pair of walking boots. She would not have even had to change her corset cover. She would have been nearly invisible traveling by train, and pawning a set of earrings and a jeweled brooch would have paid for room and board for several weeks.

Still, if she put any planning to it, she would have known the wedding dress would take up valuable space in a suitcase, and she would need to travel light without the help of a driver… But who said she _had_ no help from the driver? If she had changed into more practical clothes the very instant her family had left her alone, then the driver would have enough time to take her to the station, hide her wedding dress in the motorcar (or was it a carriage?) and return home to put on an act for the brother and jilted fiance. Though that did not explain how the house was locked entirely from within.

There were other places, _better places,_ a young woman could travel if she was looking to run away; small towns were always eager for new school teachers, any literate young women with an ounce of imagination and a basic grasp of mathematics would have her travel paid for and lodgings available upon arrival, as well as her pick of young men. Any family with a driver and the means to purchase an entire _set_ of pink pearl jewelry had the means to educate their daughter quite well. Karane had considered it before she met him; and _her parents_ were not half as wealthy as that. It was just the same as him putting in a request for transfer to a peaceful place like Skyloft after he proposed; there were much better places than _Castletown_. Really, _Clocktown_ was the place he would want to run too.

"Why are you so quiet? What more proof do you need? A ransom note? A trail of blood? What?"

Pipit shook his head, "I… I was thinking of it, how it could be accomplished while the house remained locked. I understand your concern, and I understand why you would find it difficult to do nothing, but it _is_ up to the police in Clocktown to determine if a crime has been committed. I advise you to return there. We will keep an eye out for her, but there are many other cases and…"

"Princess Zelda has a castle protecting her. She has knights. She has magic wards all around the Castle. My Anju has no such luxury!"

The man had a point. Pipit had been thinking about Ben, not Zelda, but the man still had a point.

He was saved from having to try to explain himself or pacify him, temporarily, by a knock on the door and Karane's voice, "Coffee, Pip."

Without a word, Pipit got to his feet and opened the door for her. Carefully, she set the tray of coffee down on the edge for the table. Two cups, sugar on ceremony, and milk on technicality. Pipit reached for the milk but then he remembered what Link Delaire had said about borax being used to mask the sour taste, and not kill the bacteria that caused it. He decided to take it black today. Kafei drained his cup, poured himself another, and shook the last few drops of a hip flask into the cup with a defeated frown.

 _Three_ bad habits.

"Oh!" Karane exclaimed suddenly. Pipit was on edge, so he jumped to look for what could have alarmed her. He heard laughter from the main room—Lear and Aracelli. He had a good view of his desk from the interview room, they were nowhere to be seen. He could only see Karane stepping out of the way, Ben, still as stone, a quiet reminder to the station that there was something otherworldly stalking the streets.

"Jackasses!" Pipit exclaimed suddenly when he saw it. Kafei jumped and started to say something indignant but Pipit had stormed through the door. _A police hat_ had been put on his outstretched hand, like he was a piece of furniture now. Pipit took it off, careful not to damage the kid's stone hand. Badge number O923. Cawlin Lear. He rounded on him, "You see a boy's been turned to stone and the first thing you think to do walk from the door _to my desk_ to use him _instead of the_ hat rack!?"

"What?" Lear sneered over a cup of coffee, "Am I _contaminating_ your evidence?"

Aracelli guffawed. Karane looked ready to burst into tears again.

Pipit's teeth clenched so hard he heard a crackling in his ears and the pain of it would stay with him for a day or more. He had never liked Cawlin Lear. He was a loathsome, waddling spit of a man. If he _was_ a decent detective, most of his perps would give him the slip because he was slow as molasses. Besides, he was a _rotten_ detective, he would not follow a lead unless it was wearing a skirt, _and_ he was slow as molasses. Inspector Groose Aracelli was at least _physically_ fit for the job, but he was pompous, conceited, and gave _himself_ far too much credit.

And they always came as a packaged deal, that was the worst part.

Aracelli had his feet on his desk, pretending to keep out of it, but watching the drama unfold with a gleam in his eye. He had _bought_ his position in the precinct. Pipit could not remind him with out the man pulling rank—they had been handed the investigation into the royal family and they were prancing around like it was just a splendid new feather in their caps and not a matter of national security.

Karane stepped forward and placed a careful hand—no, the tips of her fingers were enough to bring him back to reality—on his wrist. He relaxed. Cawlin Lear was only one loathsome, waddling _spit_ of a man, but he _did_ out rank him. Such was the power of having friends with old money. Pipit had many things Cawlin Lear would be envious of—work ethic, long legs, good looks, and Karane. He took a calming breath and considered the rash action of punting his hat out the door and into the street. As satisfying as it would be, it would get him fired. He could not transfer to Skyloft if he was fired. He could not marry Karane if he was fired. He would not, one day, outrank Cawlin Lear based on merit and merit alone if he was fired.

He let his anger go with a deep sigh and straightened up to his full height. He hooked an arm around Karane's waist and gave her a kiss that was uncomfortably long for everyone except him. Only when he heard Detective Lear scoff in jealousy disguised as disgust did he let her go. Then he turned, Detective Lear's hat still in hand, and placed it on top of the tall bookcase beside his desk.

Lear stopped laughing.


End file.
